


nothing's felt more sure (than when you were next to me)

by nothingbutniall



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sickfic, WTFock Season 3, they are /in love/ in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22149013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutniall/pseuds/nothingbutniall
Summary: Robbe gets ill. Sander takes care of him.(Classic sickfic, basically.)
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 6
Kudos: 166





	nothing's felt more sure (than when you were next to me)

**Author's Note:**

> Been a while since I last wrote about these two. (And of course it's a fluff fic, what else do you expect from me?
> 
> (Title comes from Sleeping At Last's Next To Me.)

Robbe wakes up with a pounding headache and a throat that feels like sandpaper. Even stretching out his arm to check the time seems like inhuman effort and he nearly drops his phone in his face when he lifts it above his head.

He texts Sander to stay away.

He should have expected it would have the opposite effect.

//

The creaky sound of the wonky floorboard near the door wakes him up and he cracks open an eye to see a sheepish-looking Sander.

“Shit, sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up.”

“'s okay,” Robbe croaks before clearing his throat with a cough. When Sander takes a step closer, he shakes his head. “You're gonna get ill, too.”

“Don’t care.”

“You should. You’ve got exams coming up.”

Sander laughs and brushes Robbe’s hair of his forehead. “I’ll be fine. If I didn’t catch pneumonia after being naked in the streets for hours, I’m pretty sure your germs can’t hurt me.”

Robbe grimaces the way he always does when Sander mentions _that night_. For Sander, it’s just one of the things he’s done when his mind was playing tricks on him. For Robbe, the flashing blue reflecting on the foil wrapped around Sander is a vision he’d rather forget.

“Have you eaten today?” Sander asks, stroking his fingers across Robbe’s cheek. They’re cold from the winter air, feeling heavenly against Robbe’s overheated skin, and he nuzzles into the touch.

It takes him a second to realise Sander asked him a question, but then he remembers to shake his head, and even that tiny movement shoots daggers through his skull. He clenches his eyes shut, grateful when Sander moves his hands up to lightly massage his temples.

“I’ll make you some tea and toast, okay?”

Robbe hums. It’s the only form of communication that doesn’t hurt his head nor his throat.

//

After drinking an entire cup of lemon tea with honey and forcing down some toast, Robbe feels a little more like himself. His head still hurts and droplets of sweat drip down the back of his neck, but his throat feels a little less like desert sand.

Sander is lying on his stomach across the end of the bed, because Robbe physically can’t stand having him near now that Sander is no longer cool from the outside air.

“Fun fact,” Sander starts, and Robbe suppresses the urge to roll his eyes at him. Sander’s random knowledge transfers are rarely fun, and more weird, disturbing, or simply made up.

Sander pushes lightly at Robbe’s foot. “Don’t pull that face.”

Instead of schooling his features into a semi-interested look, Robbe sticks his tongue out. It earns him a pinch to his hip.

“Fine, what?” Robbe sighs. He can’t deny it isn’t adorable, the way Sander gets excited over ridiculously dumb facts. Just last week, he (and by extension, Robbe) learned that sharks can live for up to five centuries, and that platypuses don’t have nipples.

“Space smells like steak!”

Robbe groans and pulls the duvet up to cover his face.

He hears the rustle of sheets and feels the mattress move beneath him, and then a weight settles on his lap.

Sander peels back the duvet, looking at him with a wide grin. “Can you believe?”

“You’re talking shit.”

“I’m not!” He sounds so offended Robbe can’t help but snort.

“You are. I’m ill, not stupid.”

Sander raises his eyebrows, as if to say _aren’t you?_

Robbe hates him.

He voices that thought: “I hate you.”

“Love you too,” Sander says. He bends down for a kiss, but Robbe turns his head to the side before their lips touch.

“I’m ill,” Robbe says for the umpteenth time.

“Just one,” Sander negotiates, placing his fingers under Robbe’s chin to turn his face back.

If Robbe were a stronger person, he’d at least struggle a bit longer, but Robbe is nothing if not weak for Sander, so he lets himself be persuaded.

Despite Sander claiming he’s not afraid of some germs, the kiss doesn’t last long, just barely more than a peck, and Robbe finds himself pouting a little when they part.

It makes Sander laugh and the light-hearted sound is music to Robbe’s ears. He likes when Sander laughs, and he likes it even more when he’s the one making him laugh.

And maybe it's the fever talking, but Robbe would marry this boy in a heartbeat. Spending the rest of forever wrapped up in Sander's arms sounds like a pretty solid plan.

He knows people say infatuation doesn’t last forever and it takes about a year to go from being in love to either falling out of actually loving them, but he can’t imagine it will ever stop feeling like this.

Easy.

Warm.

Happy.

And above all, _safe_. There is something intrinsically safe about knowing Sander is just as crazy about him as he is about Sander, about knowing that no matter what, they trust each other.

They might not know what the future holds for them, but they know that they’ll tackle it together, day by day, hour by hour, and minute by minute.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos make me smile :) You can also find me on Twitter (@nothingbutniall)!


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